Heir Apparent
by Cornix
Summary: They also serve who only stand and wait. The world according to Guy.


Author's notes: Very much movieverse. This flies in the face of history and, like _Soldiers Three_, may be overturned by the Director's Cut. And I wouldn't presume to get under the _real_ Guy de Lusignan's skin.

An all-but-plotless POV, chronologically preceding _Soldiers Three_ but probably still set in 1184. Rated T for general unkindness of a fairly adult type and some potentially disturbing imagery.

They also serve who only stand and wait. The world according to Guy.

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**Heir Apparent**

It was, he had told himself, a matter of no importance. A foolish business that should never have required a High Court to settle. If it had been he in that chair he would have laughed aloud, and dismissed it out of hand.

Naturally, as it was, it had taken a lot longer than that. And foolish as it was, it had angered him.

He hadn't asked to stand where he had been standing, to the left of the King's chair, and he wouldn't have. He had been there because it was his proper place. The place on the King's right had been empty as usual. The Princess rarely attended. And there were the guards, knights of the household in their blue and gold, keeping in the background, spears in hand. And the barons and knights down in the courtyard, worthy and otherwise – that upstart monk was there, some paltry baron's penniless fourth son turned Knight Hospitaller and, somehow, the King's confessor. Both the Grand Masters were absent, to make it known what they thought of it all he rather suspected, but the Patriarch was there, puffing himself up in his ornate chair.

In truth, he felt more comfortable down there himself. More like his own kind, less in attendance. But this was an audience, and during audiences this was his proper place. One day his proper place would be that chair; he would be feeling right at home then.

And so he watched from where he stood, the whole disgraceful charade. A delegation of five, but only one of them spoke – a mangled French, you'd think they could have sent somebody who spoke the language, at least. Even so the greetings and pleasantries took their time, with much touching of foreheads, until the man got to the point. The point was that they wanted some abandoned church at Acre that had been a mosque to be turned back into a mosque. Something to do with some trade route, and merchants having a place to pray. There was a hostelry belonging to it, apparently. They wanted that as well. _Is that all_, he'd thought when he had first heard of it. And here they were to hear Jerusalem's answer.

Their leader had approached right to the foot of the steps leading up to the King's chair and stood there with his neck craned forward, because as usual the King's voice was inaudible five steps away; it might have been funny, but it was not. That this man, this Saracen who was probably a good fighter for his cursed religion (he certainly looked like one) should act as if he held the King in deep respect – a Christian King, a cripple and an inept ruler who had just made yet another weak concession – the falseness of it jarred on his patience_. I'd give you cause for respect_, he thought, _you wouldn't even need to fake it_...

Jerusalem deserved better than this.

And that exchange went on and on – much of it conducted in Arabic, fueling a dull anger. Did the King _want_ them to be clueless about what was being said? At one point the envoy actually grinned. He could have stabbed the fellow then and there.

At length and finally they were finished. The envoy bowed and stepped back. Down in the courtyard Tiberias raised his hand to quell any discussion that might arise before the King had spoken. Which their sovereign lord and master did (switching back to French, which was gracious of him, he'd thought angrily – was that an undertone of amusement? He couldn't be sure, but he'd grown quite good at picking up the nuances...). Explaining that they would get their mosque and hostelry – no surprises here – and that they would repair it, and keep it in repair, and pay taxes for it – at last, some sign of sense, he'd thought, although he had been surprised that the Saracen appeared to have accepted this without demur. The Patriarch had once again raised objections about the conversion of what was, after all, a church – which the King had quashed without ceremony, speaking so quietly they had to strain to hear the gist of it. Something about traditional rights, and nobody being the poorer for it. And Tiberias, damn him, so ready to shout each and any down when the King as much as lifted a finger, left them to it.

That had been it. His King had just given the cursed infidels another foothold in a Christian city, and the Patriarch never said another word. But then the Patriarch was a coward who'd never been known to stand up for anything. He'd watched him silently bowing in his chair, lips tight. Jerusalem deserved better than _that_, too.

The envoy withdrew with many gestures and an even deeper bow, not even trying to speak French any longer. And Tiberias down in the court declared the matter closed.

And so he had watched as the King got to his feet, carefully, using the right hand on the armrest to lever himself up, the useless left hanging at his side. The knights looked on watchfully, and did nothing. That did not fool him. He had seen them spring to life before.

But he had been the one who happened to stand closest when the King's foot gave, and the King had reached out and gripped his arm to steady himself, and Guy had suffered it without thinking. And a moment later the King had regained his footing, and let go of him, just in time (because Guy really didn't like the thought of being touched by him, and immediately after his instinctive gesture he'd remembered it, and almost shuddered at the heavy white damask of that sleeve brushing his hand as the King's grip loosened – )

"Thank you, Brother", he had said composedly, the mask in profile but still too close for comfort, the voice – that uncannily resonant sound that was nothing like a normal human voice – disembodied in the air between them.

You'd think he could have said that a little louder so others could hear it; it would have reminded them of a few things. _Brother_. Brother indeed. They were brothers about as much as the Patriarch over there was his sister. In fact, he might have no love and less respect for the Patriarch, but at least it was no concern to him if the Patriarch lived or died...

And suddenly the mask had turned his way, and at that moment the light had been just so, and he had seen those gray eyes looking out at him from their ravaged sockets, and straight at him, and he was rather pleased that he hadn't flinched.

And there was Tiberias, stepping in with a cold stare to take him off Guy's hands, not a moment too soon. You'd think he would grow tired of being prop and mouthpiece and God knew what else to _this_. He had been something in his day, Tiberias. Guy had returned that stare levelly and stepped back, stopping just short of an ironic bow, to watch his liege withdraw. Not leaning on Tiberias' arm, of course; that would have made him look weaker than he was prepared to look, now wouldn't it.

He really wasn't too steady on his feet these days, he had thought, and then had thought of how those feet must look. The hand beneath the glove, the fingers that had gripped his arm. What he might have seen had that sleeve fallen back further – dear God, he only hoped that the undersleeve and glove between them covered all of it. He had swallowed the sick feeling, and left as soon as it was seemly to go and wash.

Battle injuries, that was one thing. He had seen his share of those, on himself and others, and dressed them too. But this.

_This_ was obscene.

A king might bear his battle scars, and be proud of them. If _he_ was to end up one-handed or one-eyed, so be it. It was the price you paid. He was willing to pay it, and lead his knights again. Death on the battlefield, the blue and golden banner waving over him – that he could face. A warrior king, a strong ruler heeding the will of God. Someone to restore the glory of the kingdom. _That_ was what Jerusalem deserved.

Instead they had this crippled, diseased... outcast, decaying flesh swathed in white robes. He should have been dead these two years, at least. He _was_ dead, a living corpse that refused to die.

Involuntarily he walked faster. From that courtyard it was a fair distance to his quarters.

Back home he would have known how to deal with this. Here... here this was his King.

How he had expected the support of his arm, without a thought. How he himself had given it. Why hadn't he stepped back? _Why_? Not for fear of appearing churlish, he knew _that_; they were welcome to think him that, those who would. He didn't care.

He wondered what would have happened if he _had_ stepped back. Whether any of the knights would have been quick enough. It was a dangerous thought, alluring, and yet he recoiled from it. He'd all but _offered_ his arm, for Heaven's sake. Why? _Why_?

And the King had known he would. Or at least, that he wouldn't step back.

That look. As if to tell him that he knew. As if he had read his mind. _I am not dead yet... Brother_.

_Damn_ him. Perhaps he _had_ read his mind. Who knew what was going on behind that mask.

He shuddered. He truly didn't want to know.

There had been a time when he had thought he understood him well enough. Not that he had ever fooled himself; his brother-in-law didn't like him, and never had. He could almost respect him for that. He did honor courage. Made a point of it, in fact. There'd been something in the steady dislike of the gaze that lay on him at his wedding that had amused him and that he understood. Fourteen, fair as the sister was dark, but they did look like each other, with their lankiness and those gray eyes. Fourteen and King and leper, looking at the man who would succeed him. Of course he disliked him; at least he had the guts to let it show. They'd given him five years. Maybe six. And he wouldn't be ruling for the last couple of them. Guy could wait _that_ long, graciously too.

But that had been a long time ago now. That youth was gone. And in his place was – this.

Barely human. If he resented him Guy couldn't tell. That never-raised voice gave nothing away. He didn't see him often, which was fine with him. But when he did...

He would have preferred resentment. That he could deal with. At least he would have known just where he stood. He still recalled the savage clashes they'd had. It had been easier before the mask, before that all-white fad. There was no arguing with _this_.

On reaching his quarters he had told a servant to pour water and all but ripped off his tunic, and then he had stood, stripped to the waist, and scrubbed, still feeling sickened. That touch seemed to linger like a mark. There had been a red stain on his forearm from his scrubbing where his brother-in-law's fingers had been, and still he felt unclean.

Now _that_ was something that was beyond hiding, white robes or not. The color of purity, of all things. The hubris of it. He did not know why God suffered this mockery. There were tales of what He did to those who did not heed His warnings. You'd think being smitten with _that_ would have been warning enough.

The Leper, Reynald sometimes put it when no one else was near. It made him uncomfortable at the same time it amused him. The brazenness. He knew he'd never call him that himself, to the point though it might be.

That man was dangerous. He had found himself thinking of late that perhaps it might be better if Reynald were no longer around when he himself became King. But how to bring that about he did not know. Anyway, for now he needed him. And for some reason, he liked to have him at his side. Reynald, who always appeared calmly certain of everything. Of being able to accomplish everything. And so far Reynald had always proved himself right.

He'd been wondering at times if Reynald could accomplish one thing they had not discussed. He had never even indicated that he wanted to discuss it. In truth, he did not want it discussed so much as over and done with. And then again, did they really need to _do_? How much longer could it take? A crowned and anointed King, you did not lay hands –

Then again, it _was_ taking a long time. And it couldn't be difficult. Difficult would be to get near him, not doing it. The man was dying anyway, there must be ways –

He _wasn't_ dying, though. Or at least, he was taking his sweet time. But getting past Tiberias and his knights would... well. And it _would_ involve that, of course.

Damn Tiberias, anyway. He'd be delighted. Guy knew the man was just waiting to catch him at something. Anything. Accuse him of treason as he had all but done with Reynald before, and _had_ done with some others who had not been cautious enough.

The first of those sentences had left him incredulous. A knight, a Templar knight. Tiberias might rant all he wanted, but the King could not sentence a Templar.

He remembered _that_ High Court – he wasn't likely to forget it.

That barely-audible voice. Explaining that the man was condemned not as a Templar but as a law-breaker and a traitor against the realm, of which he was the sovereign King; defying the fury of the Grand Master, who had been white with rage and shouting, invoking the Pope's name and letting his outrage carry him halfway up the steps to the King's chair, where he was met first by the crossed spears of the knights of the household and then by Tiberias himself...

It had given him a chill. He had no wish to hang. He had never considered – he didn't truly believe the King would go that far, but –

But.

A man who did that might do anything. A man who did that did not fear God any longer. I have stricken them, but they have not grieved, said the Lord; that sentence had stuck with him. _He is cursed_, he had thought, _we will be cursed along with him_, and: _How much longer_?

At the rate this was going, there wouldn't be much left for him to inherit. Then again, how much longer could it last?

He'd looked down at that point, and realized that he was still splashing water over his arm; the skin was burning like fire. He called himself to order – this was ridiculous – and snatched a towel from the servant to dry himself off. By the time he had gotten back into a fresh undertunic he was wondering how long it would be before the entire court knew that the King's brother-in-law had stormed in just after that audience to use up a cistern's worth of water. Ah, well, he'd thought. They might even figure it out. He could live with that.

He'd waved the embroidered tunic away that the servant was holding out for him. His anger was fading along with the unclean feeling. Refusing those envoys that mosque and hostelry wouldn't have brought things to a head either. Whipping them out of the city might have done it. Better still, trust in Reynald.

That grip had been firm enough. _Even now_, he thought. But _surely_ it couldn't take much longer now.

He'd walked over to the window to look out over the city. Most of their rooms overlooked an enclosed courtyard and garden, but some did not. The view was magnificent, the city blazing in the light of the afternoon sun. He liked to stand here.

The King wanted to send him on another recruiting mission he knew. Back to Europe, which of course meant: away from Jerusalem. He'd been hoping it would come to nothing; he really didn't want to be away when something decisive happened. But he was beginning to think that there might be something to be said for going and getting it over with – and getting out of the way for a while before his anger got the better of him. As long as Reynald kept at it and he himself was back in time to take up the reins.

He'd be recruiting for himself, after all. By the time his recruits arrived at Jerusalem this might all be over.

Standing there by the window, looking out over the city, he mustered his patience for what felt like the thousandth time. Jerusalem did deserve better. His time would come. It _was_ only a matter of time. He'd grown so good at waiting.

_Yes_, he thought, for the thousandth time. _Wait_.

_-- finis_


End file.
